Seven Years of Fear and Lies
by xerious
Summary: It looked exactly the same, and if he looked hard enough, he could almost see his Lucy standing in the window of the shop. This is not a Sweeney/Lovett fic, so if that's what you're looking for, look somewhere else.
1. Ghosts

**Disclaimer:** Story is mine, characters and anything else familiar—not mine.

**Rating: **PG. Rating is subject to change.

**A/N:** This is more of a "What If" story. What if Sweeney Todd came back after seven years, and not fifteen? What would have happened then? Also, I realize the beginning of this chapter is just like the movie. This should be the only chapter similar to the movie. _Also_, just to avoid confusion, Anthony is the same age he was in the movie, for the story's sake.

_Seven Years of Fear and Lies_

Chapter One: Ghosts

Anthony wasn't entirely sure what it was, but something about the stranger was intimidating. He was tall and very thin – emaciated, even. His hair was dark and unruly, with a shock of white that ran through it, stemming from his right temple. By the looks of it, Anthony almost doubted the man could hold his own in a fight. _Almost_, because despite all of that, he still couldn't bring himself to approach the older man. Maybe it was the way the receding moon cast him in an eerie shadow that had the sailor feeling a bit uneasy, or maybe it was the fact that in the three months he'd been on the ship, he'd hardly spoken, and if he did he was short and clipped and his voice held little to no emotion. Or maybe-- maybe it was the way his eyes were always so distant, so far off in thought, so blank and yet full of anger and guilt and longing all at once.

Shifting his sac on his shoulder, Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but found that he lacked the words he'd so readily rehearsed over and over in his head just moments before. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he swallowed, licking his lips. He tried again.

"...Mister Todd?" he said, his voice quiet and almost hesitant, as if he was afraid to draw the barber out of whatever memory he might have been recalling. "Sir? I—I apologize for disturbing you, but I thought you might like to know that we'll be mooring shortly," he finished, shifting his weight from foot to foot along with the gentle sway of the ship.

"...London?" came the quiet, deeper voice, and Anthony almost jumped at the unexpected response. He nodded and shifted his pack again, trying to ignore that familiar, uneasy feeling that washed over him when the barber turned to face him, his face partially masked in the shadows of the morning and his eyes shining dissonantly in the fading moonlight of the quickly approaching dawn.

"...Yes, sir," Anthony answered, and slowly, he came to stand by the older man, keeping a comfortable distance. For a few moments he said nothing, and then,

"I am glad to be returning to London. No other city can take the place of my home."

"...Hn," Sweeney grunted and Anthony paused, furrowing his brow at the bitter expression that flickered across the older man's face.

"Sir?"

"You are young," the barber explained, lifting his hands and resting them on the railing before him, long, thin fingers curling gingerly against the damp wood as the ship pulled into the harbor and dropped anchor.

"I don't understand."

"You will learn," he said, and released the railing, turning to wander towards the opposite side of the ship where the gangplank was being let down. With a nod of thanks, he took his pack from a fellow sailor and began his dissent. Anthony blinked and followed after him, curious as to what he had meant, but too afraid to question the man. Maybe he wasn't meant to understand now. Maybe it would come later.

"Farewell, Anthony," Sweeney said once he reached the docks, his back to the boy. "I will not soon forget the good ship Bountiful, nor the young man who rescued me. I am thankful for your help."

"I have done nothing deserving thanks, sir. Any Christian who would have spotted you straining and striving on that raft would have done the same," Anthony said and smiled kindly, leaning a bit to try and catch sight of Sweeney's face, but the barber turned his head.

"There are many a Christian who would have left me for dead and lost not a wink's sleep over it either," Sweeney replied quietly, creasing his brows as he stared down at the cobbled stone beneath his feet, wet and slippery with the recent rain. He seemed lost in thought, but Anthony was too awestricken with the magnificence of London to notice.

"Takes your breath away, doesn't it?" he breathed, absently stepping aside to let a gentleman past.

Sweeney lifted his head, pulled from his reverie and disgusted with Anthony's words. He shuddered, frowning callously.

"If you like the great black hole of filth that is London, I suppose," he muttered bitingly, and then seemed to reconsider himself. Anthony peered at him curiously, taken aback at the grim way his friend spoke of the city that he himself held in such high admiration.

"I beg your pardon, Anthony. Where I once found comfort in these previously familiar streets, I find only shadows now."

"Shadows?" Anthony took a step forward toward his friend, intrigued, perplexed.

"Ghosts," Sweeney murmured.

"Sir?"

Sweeney continued. "There was a barber and his wife, and she was beautiful. Beautiful, virtuous...proper. Everyone knew that she meant everything to the barber, but the barber... He was so...naive." Here, he paused for a moment, as if he was uncertain of what came next in the story.

"But there was another man, pompous, and of the law—A judge. And he longed for the beauty that did not belong to him. Selfishly, he had the barber taken away—removed. She could do nothing but wait, and...and she would fall. So soft, so young...and so beautiful..." Todd tapered off, the tale having taken some sort of effect on him. He seemed paler now, and that ever-remaining fire in his eyes seemed brighter, more enraged. Anthony was unsure if he should speak.

"...And—And the lady, sir... Did she surrender?"

Sweeney cocked his head, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards into a small, bitter smile. "That was long ago. I wouldn't know, nor do I believe anyone else would."

Sweeney turned his gaze up towards the dark, gray-blue of the early morning sky, eyes squinted and blank.

"I owe you my life, Anthony. If it were not for you, I would still be lost in the ocean. Thank you," he said, and lifted his duffel from the concrete, moving to leave. Anthony adjusted his grip on the strap of his own bag and quickly stepped forward as if he was about to stop the man.

"Will I see you again?" He questioned, silently berating himself for sounding so desperate, so childish.

Sweeney paused and glanced over his shoulder at the boy. "If you'd like. You might find me around Fleet Street, I imagine."

Anthony smiled, seemingly satisfied that Sweeney wasn't just going to leave him alone and friendless in a city he'd been away from for so many years. He nodded, and extending his hand, he said, "Until then, my friend."

Sweeney turned away and took no notice of the kind gesture, and in a matter of moments, he had disappeared, his muttered words a whisper on the breeze. Anthony could only stand and wonder about the dark, enigmatic fog that hung about his friend's head.

* * *

There it was.

Sweeney slowed and came to stand at the end of the street, gazing up at the shop on the opposite side of the road, out of place and dwarfed by the other buildings surrounding it. It looked exactly the same, and if he looked hard enough, he could almost see his Lucy standing in the window of the shop, just above where Nellie Lovett – he absently wondered if she was still around – used to make her pies down below. He looked away. False hopes were exactly that: false. Seven years was a long time to wait, and Sweeney would not blame her if she had moved on to bigger, better things, better _men—_

_No._

Lucy was _his_ and no one else's.

Clenching his jaw, Sweeney pushed the unwanted thoughts from his mind and quietly crossed the street, forcing himself not to look up at the shop he once owned, at the ghostly image of his wife he knew would be waiting; a figment of his imagination. Instead, he trained his eyes on the shop below, peering through the filthy windows of the door for any sign of life.

Movement. Small, but still visible, still there. Sweeney lifted his hand, fingers coming to touch the cool handle of the door, but instead of going in, he hesitated. What if it wasn't her, what if it wasn't Nellie Lovett, but someone else? What if it was someone else, and they recognized him? No... No, he looked different now, changed, unfamiliar. No one would recognize him, not so easily. Sweeney shook his worries away and gripped the handle, pushing the door open and stepping in, absently noting the quiet chiming of bells as he closed the door behind him. The woman at the counter, busy chopping a stick of suet, looked up and blinked.

"A customer!" she gasped, surprised—delighted. Quickly, she came around the counter and took Sweeney by the shoulders, pulling him further into the shop and pushing him down into a seat. Sweeney found that he suddenly felt very exhausted, and didn't protest.

"Sit!" she said happily, gathering her skirts in her gloved hands and scurrying off. Sweeney tilted his head a bit and watched her with tired eyes. There was no doubting that she was the Nellie Lovett he'd known so many years ago. Admittedly, she had changed quite a bit – her hair was messy and sloppily pulled back out of her face and her skin was paler, and she seemed thinner than before. Her eyes were a bit sunken, too, and the skin around them sagged just slightly. This was not to say that she was ugly or unattractive, but Sweeney knew that she had seen better days.

"First customer I've 'ad in weeks, you are," she said, having taken her place behind the counter again. "You must be starvin', eh? Too thin, you are, darling," she drawled, picking something out of the flour before her and dropping it on the floor. Sweeney furrowed his brow at the peculiar action and only found himself more curious when she suddenly beat her palm against the countertop, as if this was a normal thing to do.

"Did you come for a pie, sir?" Nellie questioned, and without waiting for a reply, she plucked one of her pies from the counter and dropped it onto a plate she'd pulled from a shelf behind her. Something told the barber that pies shouldn't clatter in such a way, nor should they be covered in a blanket of – dust, was it? -, but he was too tired to make anything of it. Nellie placed the pastry on the table and slid it towards him.

"'ow about a spot of ale?" she asked. Sweeney nodded and she was back behind her counter again, spooning something out of a bowl and slopping the questionable substance into a pie crust.

"No one ever stops in 'ere anymore, not like they used to. S'pose my pies ain't what they used to be, but they ain't _terrible_," Nellie chattered, dropping a lump of dough into the flour. She began to knead it as she spoke, her words broken every now and then with a grunt. "Oh, 'oo am I foolin'. These are probably the-- worst pies London 'as ever-- tasted. 'aven't sold a single pie in weeks I tell you. Worst pies in London!"

Sweeney glanced up and lifted a finger, opening his mouth to interject, but Nellie interrupted, raising her hand to stop him. "If you doubt it, take a bite, go on, love."

Sweeney paused and looked down at the pie in front of him, unsure if it was safe to eat. Hesitantly, he picked the pastry up, waving it in front of his nose as he inhaled. _Something_ smelled off, but whether it was the pie or the entire shop itself, he couldn't tell. Reason told him to put it down and leave it, but the growling of his stomach said otherwise, and throwing caution out the window, Sweeney tentatively took a bite.

It was _awful_. The barber tried not to grimace, but his disgust was quite evident and Nellie sighed, shaking her head.

"Disgustin', innit? You 'ave to agree, I mean, s'nothing but crust an' it looks like it's moltin'. Drink this, darling," she said, and brought him a tankard of ale. Sweeney drank it greedily, hoping to rid his mouth of the horrible taste. Nellie watched him and smiled a bit in amusement.

"S'going to take a lot more than just ale to wash that taste out, darling," she said quietly, her hands, pale with flour, resting on her hips. "Come on, love, come with me an' I'll get you nice glass of gin," she finished, moving towards the doorway at the far left. Sweeney pushed the pie away and stood, shouldering his duffel bag and following after her.

The parlor was not as he remembered it. The layout was still the same, but many things had changed since he'd last seen it. The wallpaper, for one, was more cheery – that is, if you ignored the fact that parts of it were charred and singed and a discolored yellow – and the furniture, while still the same as before, was covered in a thick layer of dust. The mantle above the fireplace was cluttered with useless knickknacks and trinkets of all kinds, all of which were also covered in dust and cobwebs, and somewhere, lodged between what looked like a music box and a candleholder, was a postcard of the seaside. It seemed to be the only thing free of filth. For someone who lacked any real reason to make pies – seeing as she claimed to have not had a customer in quite some time – Sweeney wondered why she didn't spend her time doing more practical things—like tidying up.

"There you are," Nellie said, coming up behind him and touching his shoulder, holding the gin out to him in her other hand. Sweeney tensed at the unwanted touch and took the offered drink. "Sit down an' warm yourself. You look chilled right through." Nellie took him by the elbow and led him to the sofa in front of the fireplace, pushing on his shoulders much like she'd done when he'd first appeared in her shop. Sweeney, once again, did not protest, comforted by the heat of the fire. For a while, he sat silently and just stared into the flickering flames as Mrs. Lovett flitted about the room, moving things here and there in a poor attempt to clean. The barber's voice pulled her from her useless effort.

"Isn't that a room over the shop? If the business is lacking, how come you don't rent it out?" Sweeney asked, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers against his eyelids. The warmth of the fire was relaxing and he was beginning to feel the lack of sleep taking its toll on him. It was all he could do to suppress a yawn.

Nellie glanced over her shoulder as she put the bottle of gin away and then came around the couch to stand in front of him.

"What? Up there?" she asked, gesturing towards the ceiling, and then looked back at Sweeney with a shrug. "No one'll go near it," she added, and when Sweeney sent her a questioning look, she continued. "People think it's 'aunted."

The barber cocked his head, her words having caught his interest. "...Haunted. Why's that?"

Mrs. Lovett crossed her arms, ready to tell the story when she paused, her brows furrowing as she stared down at Sweeney. Something about him was familiar. He looked...he looked like...

_No. Can't be 'im, no way it's 'im._

Plastering on a smile, Nellie smoothed her hands along the front of her dress and laughed quietly. "That's a story for another time, darling. For now, you should get some rest, you can 'ardly keep your eyes open! You can sleep in 'ere for now, on the sofa. I'll get you some nice warm blankets an' we can talk some more when you're rested, mister..."

Nellie tapered off, waiting for him to supply a name. A name she was quite certain she already knew.

"...Todd. Sweeney Todd."

Nellie smiled again and moved towards the door with a nod. "Right then, Mister Todd. I'll be back in a tic with some blankets," she told him, and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

* * *

"Todd," Nellie muttered, pressing her back against the door to the parlor.

_Not Todd. Barker. Benjamin Barker. Benjamin Barker 'as returned._

Nellie turned, pressing her ear against the cool wood of the door, listening closely. Everything was silent, and the baker couldn't help but wonder what the barber was doing. It was most likely that he was trying to get some sleep. Nellie suddenly remembered the blankets.

Stepping away from the door, Mrs. Lovett absently wrung her hands together and crossed the length of her shop, stepping through the door at the opposite side. Once outside, she paused, and then hiked up her skirts, turning to start up the stairs that led to the shop just above her's, murmuring inaudible words to herself and shaking her head.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Nellie noted that the door to the shop was slightly ajar, and quietly, she approached, pushing it open gingerly. The door groaned on its hinges, and shortly after, a gentle, quiet voice followed.

"...I-I'm sorry, Mrs. Lovett. I was just leaving."

Nellie stopped in the doorway and peered at the woman standing at the window. For the third time, she pasted on a false smile and shook her head. "Oh no, darling, s'not a bother. Jus' came up to get some extra blankets. S'been getting' colder in the nights an' I figured I'd fetch the blankets now 'afore I forget to later," she said, moving towards the small storage trunk against the wall and unhooking the latches. She lifted the lid, and with little effort, she pulled out all of two tattered bedspreads.

Stepping off to the side of the trunk, Nellie nudged the lid closed with her hip and looked back at the woman at the window once more, arms full.

"You can stay up 'ere as long as you like, darling, you know that," she told her and shifted the bundle in her arms so that she could open the door.

"And 'ow many times must I tell you, love? Call me Nellie, Lucy."

* * *

**A/N:** Oh dear. Please review, otherwise I'll assume no one likes it, and I'll probably delete it. Constructive criticism welcomed, but please, no flames.


	2. Lady of the Snow

**Disclaimer:** Story is mine, characters and anything else familiar—not mine.

**Rating: **PG for brief language. Rating is subject to change.

**A/N: **First, I'd like to thank the three of you that reviewed.

**Twilight Athena** – Uh. Here you go. Moar epic fail. I apologize that I do Sweeney no justice. Also—Butts.

**JasperHale – **Thank you! Here you are. As for Anthony, I decided to keep him the age he is in the movie/play for various reasons (all of which you should see sometime soon). Also, because I feel the need to clarify, there will be no pedophilia here, as I hear it is frowned upon in most societies (as is cannibalism).

**Jay-Jay Tiger7** – No worries. I don't expect people to review every chapter (but that'd be pretty awesome). The first chapter sounded very similar to the movie because I intended it to. Some events will be the same or similar to the events of the movie/play, but not all of it.

* * *

_Seven Years of Fear and Lies  
_Chapter Two: Lady of the Snow

_Sweeney slowed and came to stand at the end of the street, gazing up at the shop on the opposite side of the road, out of place and dwarfed by the other buildings surrounding it. It looked exactly the same, and if he looked hard enough, he could almost see his Lucy standing in the window of the shop, just above where Nellie Lovett – he absently wondered if she was still around – used to make her pies down below. No... Not almost. He _could_ see her. She was _there_, his Lucy, waiting, and smiling – Gods, did he love it when she smiled..._

'_My Lucy. I've come home, I—,'_

_Sweeney paused, curious as Lucy looked away from the window – had she even seen him? – at something he couldn't see._

'_Lucy. Lucy please, look at me. I've come home, I've returned. Lucy—Lucy, here—I'm here. Please, just look, just...'_

_And then she was back again, at the window, and Sweeney felt his breath catch in his throat. In her arms, she held a young child – a _beautiful_ babe with pale, golden hair and hazel eyes and she was _smiling

'_Johanna...'_

_Sweeney briefly wondered if this was some sort of dream, for he had never seen anything more beautiful than his wife and his child, standing in the window with the early morning sunrise almost seeming to cast them in a pale glow—like angels. No—No, this had to be real. Lucy was real and Johanna was real and he was real and he was _home_. He was home._

"_I'm home, Lucy—Johanna. Your father has come home. Oh, how I have missed my angels."_

_For a moment, Sweeney felt weak at the knees, as if something was pulling his weight from down below, trying to draw him into the concrete, and he panicked._

'_No—No, you will not take them from me again! I will not leave them, not like this, not now—never again will you take me away from them!'_

_And suddenly the sensation was gone and Sweeney was all but tripping over his feet as he hurried across the street, looking like a madman that'd just escaped from prison – ironic._

"_I'm home, Lucy. I'm home, everything is all right, we can be a family again. I'm home—tell Johanna I'm coming, tell her Father is home now," he repeated as he ascended the stairs, taking them two at a time, fingers gripping the railing so tight that his knuckles turned white. He tripped over the last step and caught himself against the wall._

"_I'll not leave you again, my Lucy, my Johanna, my angels," he murmured and pushed himself away from the wall, stumbling towards the door to his shop—_

_Was it still his shop? Had she kept it all this time? Such things didn't matter anymore, not now._

_Fumbling with the handle, the barber quite literally tumbled through the door, catching himself on his hands and knees. Quickly, frantically, he pushed himself to his feet and—_

_And she was still there. Standing at the window. Staring out._

_Johanna was crying._

_And for the first time since he'd taken off in a hurry from the street, Sweeney stopped and just listened—he just stared at Lucy's back, watching as she swayed gently, humming a quiet tune he could have sung every word to, every note._

_But he didn't._

"_Hush, angel. Your father will be home soon. Your father will come home and he'll sing to you."_

_Sweeney felt his chest swell with feelings he hadn't felt in seven years: pride, love, and happiness. He smiled and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding._

"_L-Lucy," he breathed, taking a step forward, reaching out to her, to his life and soul._

_She gasped, spinning around quickly and holding Johanna close to her chest. For the longest time she just stared, a range of emotions running through her. He didn't understand._

"_Lucy—my love—It's me. It's Benjamin—I've come home," he said, and his smile was beginning to falter. Something wasn't right. He should have been holding his wife already, he should have been kissing his daughter's head._

_And yet there he stood, one hand outstretched and his other flexing nervously at his side._

_Slowly, Lucy began to shake her head, her lips pursed. Her eyes were glassy._

'_No. No, please, no tears, I couldn't bear to see you cry, not now.'_

"_Please, Lucy, it's me--,"_

"_No."_

"_--...N-No?" No? Yes! Yes, it's me, it's your Benjamin, your husband! He wanted to scream, but her one simple word had left him speechless and standing rather stupidly with his mouth open and a confused look on his face. "Lucy, I—,"_

"_No. No, you aren't supposed to be here, you're supposed to be gone, banished. He said you were gone, that you were never coming back, you're not supposed to be here," she said, and her voice was shaking and she was moving away from him and this was all so _wrong

"_But I _am_ here, Lucy. I _am_ home, and I've missed you and—And Johanna. Johanna, there are no need for tears, love, Father has--,"_

"_No! No, you are not her father. You are nothing to her and—and you are nothing to me. I will not have a criminal near my daughter," she said evenly, firmly, but the tremble in her voice conveyed her fear and warned of tears to come._

_Her words struck him hard, and he stopped where he stood. You are not her father. You are not her father. You are not her father. You are not her father. You are nothing to her and you are nothing to me. Over and over the words rang through his head, and each time he felt his chest tighten more and more until he could hardly breathe—until he was sure that his heart had stopped._

"_No, Lucy—The charges were false, I've committed no crime, surely you must know that. Surely you mustn't believe--,"_

"_Please. Do not make this any harder than it already is—than it already has been. Just—Just tell her goodbye, and leave and—and don't come back." She was crying now and Sweeney wished this was all a dream. His Lucy was crying and his Johanna was crying and there was nothing he could do and he just wanted to _wake up.

"_No—Please, Lucy, don't--,"_

"_Just—Just say—say goodbye, Benjamin." She could hardly speak. He wondered if finding the words to say was as difficult as finding breath was for him. He dropped to his knees._

"_Lucy--,"_

"_Say goodbye and leave, or I will!" she cried, and her voice broke. Her entire frame shook with suppressed sobs. Johanna began to cry louder._

"_No," the barber choked, bracing his weight on his hands as he slumped forward. Everything was starting to spin and he couldn't breathe and Johanna was still crying and—and if he could just get to her carriage and get her dolly, everything would be alright and—and his vision was beginning to swim and his head was beginning to pound and—and someone else was talking now, a voice he knew but couldn't put a face to. It didn't matter, they didn't matter. All that mattered was that his angels were crying and—and he was losing them. Again._

"_No...No!"_

"NO! LUCY!"

Sweeney shot up off the sofa in a cold sweat, panting. With wide eyes he swallowed, shifting his gaze around the familiar room—

"A dream," he sighed and reached up to push his damp hair out of his eyes.

_Nightmare_._ Not real. Not true. I need air._

Shifting his legs, Sweeney found that they felt rather heavy, and for a moment, he began to panic. The sensation was similar to that of the one he'd experienced at the start of his night-terror, but when he looked down, he found that he was covered with two heavy blankets, and he relaxed again. He took another deep breath and then pushed the covers off of his legs, shifting and rising to his feet.

"Just a dream," he reminded himself, and held his head in his hands.

* * *

_Benjamin 'as returned. Benjamin is back. 'e must 'ave escaped—no matter. 'e looks changed enough, no one'll reco'nize 'im. _

Mrs. Lovett paced the length of her shop – and she had been doing so for the last hour or so – thinking about the man asleep in her parlor. The criminal. The escaped convict. The barber.

_This—This is wonderful._

She ceased her pacing and smiled.

_Always fancied 'im, I did._

With a quiet, almost child-like giggle, Nellie spun on her toes and clapped her hands together. Mister Barker—_no, not Barker. Todd_—would be waking soon and there was no doubt in the baker's mind that her guest would be more than starving.

"Can't 'ave that," she murmured to herself, and with a new-found joy for pie-making, she plucked her apron from the hook by the door and put it on, tying the strings quickly so she could get to work on one of the best pies she would ever make—or so she hoped. The best pie of many horrible ones did not necessarily make it _the best._

Humming a jovial tune to herself, Mrs. Lovett went about her shop, kneading dough and spreading flour and doing everything that was required of making pies while letting her mind wander.

_Always knew 'e wouldn' be gone long. Smart man, that Barker, an' proper an'...an' 'andsome. Even now e's an eye-catcher. Too thin, though! Needs meat on 'is bones, poor thing! Ah, no worries, that can be fixed. I'll 'ave 'im nice an' fed an' 'appy, an'—_

Mrs. Lovett's thoughts ceased and she snapped her head upwards, looking up at the ceiling as one of the floorboards above creaked loudly. And then—And then, footsteps. Her eyes widened.

_Lucy._

She'd almost forgotten about Lucy—No. Not almost. She most definitely had.

Carefully, slowly, Nellie stepped back from the counter and brushed her hands against her dress, smearing flour all down her front, her eyes still trained on the ceiling.

_She doesn't know. Lucy doesn't know. Poor thing's mopin' about up there every day an' now 'er 'usband's come home an'--..._

Mrs. Lovett wrung her hands together and shifted her gaze, staring down at the mound of dough in front of her. She pursed her lips and glanced sideways.

_An'...she doesn't 'ave to know. She's better off wiv the judge any'ow...right? I mean, she's got little Johanna to look after an' feed an' take care of—an' Todd—Todd 'as no money an' no home an'--...an' nothing to give 'em. But Turpin—Turpin can give 'em everythin' they need. 'e's got loads o' money, eh? I'm—I'm jus' lookin' out for 'er an' the babe, really, tha's all...Yes. She doesn't 'ave to—_

The sound of muffled shouting yanked the baker from her thoughts and she jumped, blinking and looking in the direction the voice had come from. The parlor. It seemed Mr. Todd was awake.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Lovett hurried around the counter, untying her apron as she went. She considered knocking, but if she wasn't quick, the baker could start shouting again and if he got any louder, there was no doubt in her mind that Lucy would hear and come down to see what all the fuss was about, and then everything would be—

_Ruined._

So she didn't knock, and instead, she pushed open the door, coming to stand in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob and the other pressed delicately against the doorframe. Cocking her head, she smiled gently, _warmly_ at Sweeney who stood in the middle of the room with his fingers buried deep in his dark, messy locks.

"Come on, now, darling. Wha's all this shoutin' about, love? You'll send every pussy cat on the block runnin' if there's any more o' that an' I don' think Mrs. Moony'd appreciate that much, as much as it would 'elp me business," she said with a shrug and a half smile, obviously amused with herself. Sweeney didn't find it funny. He didn't even look up.

Nellie sighed and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her before she came to stand in front of him.

"Oh, dear. Calm yourself, darling, no use getting' yourself worked up over nothin'. Come wiv me, sweet'eart an' I'll get you somethin' nice an' hot to eat. S'almost dinner-time anyway, you slept most o' the mornin'." She reached out and took him by the wrist, turning to lead him into the shop, but to her surprise, he resisted, pulling his hand rather sharply out of her grasp.

"I've rested," Sweeney said coldly, and when Nellie turned to face him, she found that he looked worse than he had earlier that morning. His eyes were bloodshot and the circles around them only seemed to have gotten darker, and his skin was white with pallor and it almost looked as if he'd lost ten pounds in the last few hours. "Now answer my question. Why do they think it's haunted?"

_She doesn't have to know._

Mrs. Lovett began to move about the room again, blowing away dust and moving her knickknacks around. She straightened the music on the piano and closed the lid, beginning to wipe the dust on the seat away. "Why do who think wha's 'aunted?" she asked, as if she had no idea what he was on about.

Sweeney clenched his jaw. He was in no mood for games. "The room. Above your shop. You said the reason you've not rented it out to anyone is because they fear that it's haunted. I'd like to know why anyone would have any reason to think such a thing," he stated lowly, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Nellie stopped and looked at him over her shoulder before turning fully to face him. Without a word, she came to sit on the sofa, gazing up at him.

"I--...Long ago, there was a—a barber. 'e owned the shop up there, 'e did, 'im an' 'is wife. 'e was a wonder wiv those knives 'e had—razors. But—but they took 'im away, you see. Transported 'im..."

Sweeney looked away, his eyes focusing on that silly little postcard of the sea on the mantle. "...What for?"

"Foolishness," Nellie quipped. "But 'is wife – silly thing she was; pretty, but silly – she 'ad the moon on a string, really. She waited for 'im, always standin' in the window while other men stood below with flowers an' gifts an' promises of love. The judge an'- an' the beadle, wanted 'er like mad, but she would 'ave none of it. Always cryin' an' waitin' alone with her daughter. Well, the beadle, he called on 'er an' said 'e an' the judge are to take the blame for 'er grief an' that the judge wants to make it up to 'er. The beadle takes 'er straight to the judge's 'ouse an' when she gets there—when she gets there, they're 'avin' a ball an' everyone's in masks, you see!" she said, finally pausing to take a breath.

"...Go on." The barber commanded tersely.

"...My, you do like a good story, don't you?" she said in amusement, but the look on Sweeney's face chased her smile away and she continued. "She doesn't know anyone at the ball – poor dear – so she wanders, lost, an'—an' she drinks an' she looks for the judge, 'opin' 'es repented, an' when she doesn' find 'im, she asks where 'e is. Maybe 'e's not there, she thinks." Mrs. Lovett paused again and looked up at the barber, arching her brows.

Sweeney was doing everything in his power to contain his anger, but the rage inside him just kept building and building with every word of her story. He clenched his fingers, curling them into tight fists at his sides, his eyes narrowed and burning as he gritted his teeth.

"Oh, but 'e was there, an' he finds 'er an' gets 'er alone. 'e wants her to come an' stay with him, 'e tells her—'e wants to take care of 'er an 'er Johanna an' give 'em a proper place to stay – she'd been stayin' up there," Mrs. Lovett pointed towards the ceiling, indicating the shop above. "'e begs 'er an' pleads an' tells 'er he means no 'arm, that 'es jus' doin' his duty as a gen'leman-,"

"And—And what has become of her? Where is she now?" Sweeney interrupted. His blood was boiling and every nerve in his body was alive and burning. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep his breathing steady as she went on with her story and the barber didn't know how much more he could take before he lost it. He swallowed and attempted to compose himself.

"She said yes. Lives with 'im, she does. Two years now--,"

That was it. _She said yes. She said yes. She said yes._

Sweeney spun around and slammed his fists against the mantle, a loud, growling hiss ripping from his throat. The candleholder dipped with the force of his hands and the postcard of the sea slipped, falling from it's place tucked between the trinkets and floating down in a smooth, back-and-forth motion. It landed in the fire. He didn't seem to care.

"NO. No...Not my Lucy..."

"...So it _is_ you. Benjamin Barker--,"

"_Todd_," the barber snapped, spinning around to glare at the woman before him. "Sweeney Todd. Benjamin Barker is dead," and with that being said, he made a move for the door.

"Where're you runnin' off to now, love? You ain't goin' to do any good goin' to see the Judge. 'e'll throw you right back in prison--,"

"I need air," was all Sweeney said, and he was out the door. Mrs. Lovett considered following him, but the quiet ringing of bells told her that he had already left.

* * *

Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes felt like hours—hours felt like days, and every day that passed felt like an eternity, but here—_here_, in her husband's old barber shop, time seemed to stand still. Here, she could pretend that everything was okay. Here, she could still feel her husband's fingers wiping her tears away—she could still hear him as he whispered sweet nothings to her, and she could still smell his cologne, even if it was all just a memory. Here, she could escape, if only for a while.

Lucy began to hum to herself as she stood at the window, absently watching as what seemed like half of the town bustled about the streets below; gentlemen making their way to work, women strolling along with their children, smiling and laughing, children wishing their fathers a wonderful day and kissing them goodbye on the cheek. She envied them for what they had, for what they teased her with without even knowing they were doing so. It was all so unfair, so painful and taunting and Lucy stepped away from the glass, unable to watch any longer.

She could still remember the day her husband had been taken away.

It had been a beautiful day. The sky had been clear and the sun had been shining and Lucy could still remember the way Benjamin's smile made her heart swell as he played with Johanna, entertaining her with her favorite doll. Johanna had smiled, _laughed_, and Lucy had never seen her nor her husband so happy. She could remember gazing at him, a smile on her lips, and he smiled back and—and his smile said that he loved her, that he would always love her and he would always love Johanna.

'Dadadada,' Johanna had babbled at Benjamin and she had laughed and he had smiled again and—and then the police were there and—and they were taking Benjamin away and—

_No. Think of something else. Anything else._

Lucy bit at her lower lip, closing her eyes as she tried to drive the unwanted memory away, tried to replace it with something else—something happier. Something in which she completely escape...

It was snowing. Lucy smiled softly; she had always loved the snow. Quietly, she sighed and stepped off the stairs and onto the sidewalk, closing her eyes and turning her face up towards the sky. It was the first snowfall of the winter.

"...There you are."

Lucy started and gasped quietly, opening her eyes and turning quickly to see her husband standing in the doorway. He was smiling.

"Oh, Benjamin," she breathed. "You frightened me. ...Where is Johanna? You haven't left her alone, have you—Benjamin, she could--,"

"Calm yourself, darling. It is late and Johanna is asleep; the nanny is looking after her. You need not to worry," he told her, stepping out and closing the door behind him. "What are you doing out here, my love?"

Lucy smiled. "It's snowing."

_She's so beautiful when she smiles_, Benjamin thought, gazing at her in awe. She looked at him curiously.

"What is it?"

"Nothing—I was just thinking how beautiful you are." _With your golden hair and—and the way the snowflakes catch on your eyelashes—oh, how your eyes captivate me._

Lucy blushed modestly and looked away. A shiver drifted down her spine, and lifting her arms, she wrapped them around herself.

"Come inside, Lucy," he said gently, reaching out to her. "You'll catch cold if you stay out here."

Lucy looked up towards the dark, evening sky again, her eyes squinted just slightly against the lightly falling snow. "Just—Just a bit longer," she murmured, absently reaching up to brush a stray of golden hair out of her eyes.

Benjamin sighed softly. With every moment that passed, she became more and more beautiful and the barber absently wondered if one day her beauty would surpass that of Aphrodite.

_It would not surprise me if she already has_.

Stepping down onto the sidewalk behind her, Benjamin shed his coat and draped it gently about her shoulders, sliding his hands down along her arms and encircling her from behind, his chin rested comfortably on her shoulder.

"I would give you forever if you so desired it, my lady of the snow," he whispered and she laughed, turning in his arms, her small, delicate hands lifting to press lightly against the barber's chest. Benjamin could only gaze at her and the way her eyes glittered in the light of the moon, and the way she seemed to glow when she smiled, and they way her yellow hair framed her delicate features, and the way her lips tempted him so, and—

_Aphrodite, I am afraid you have been outshone._

And he kissed her.

"I love--,"

"_NO!_"

Lucy jumped at the sudden, muffled exclamation from below and the memory faded, leaving her alone once more. She swallowed, unsettled by how real it all had seemed, and looked around the room slowly, as if she was expecting Benjamin to be there with his coat and his words of love and admiration.

_I...I should return to Johanna. There is nothing for me here... Not today._

* * *

Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Turn. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Turn.

Sweeney was pacing slowly, back and forth in front of the shop, unable to keep still. Inside, he was raging with anger and confusion and a plethora of other feelings he didn't quote understand. He didn't _want_ to understand them. All he wanted to understand was _why_. Why was his Lucy not waiting for him? Why had the judge asked her to come and stay? _Why had she said yes?_

"I don't understand," he hissed, turning swiftly – sharply – on his heel. Hardly any of the townsfolk seemed to notice him, and those who did only looked at him strangely, crossing to the other side of the street and deeming him mad.

Sweeney paid them no mind.

"My Lucy-- gone— _stolen_ by that pious _bastard_!"

_She said yes_. The baker's words sounded in his ears and he gritted his teeth.

Step. Step. Step. Pause.

The barber glanced up, his eyes narrowed and angry and cold, and found that many people were staring and children were whispering, all of them looking at him as they passed. He took a slow, deep breath, and after putting on a composed façade, he turned and disappeared into Mrs. Lovett's pie shop to inquire about a certain set of keys to a certain room above, the bells sounding after him.

* * *

Lucy could not bring herself to leave—stepping out of the shop had been hard enough, and now that she was outside, she could not bring herself to turn and walk away. Inside, beyond the door, were her memories, her escape, and her salvation from a life she was not sure she could handle anymore. Each day without her husband chipped at another piece of her heart and hope was beginning to look like such a silly thing.

Sighing, Lucy swallowed and removed her hand from the doorknob, taking a hesitant step back.

_There is nothing for me here. My life—my Johanna—waits for me elsewhere._

She bit at her lower lip, and with one last glance through the window, she locked the door and turned away, grasping the key firmly in her palm. Carefully, she tucked it away in her bodice and started down the stairs, and as she reached the bottom, she paused as something she hadn't heard in quite some time sounded faintly in her ears, somewhere from the left of her.

Bells.

**A/N:** Well, there you go. It would seem that the Barker's have horrible timing. Please review. Constructive criticism welcomed, but please, no flames


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